The Falling Leaves by Marianne Farningham

They fall upon the sodden earth, the fading, dying leaves,
Death comes to them, the beautiful, in the autumnal breeze;
Their little summer day is past, and yellow, dry, and sere,
They droop before the lightest touch of winter's finger drear.

Old trees, ye will be desolate, and naked, and forlorn,
Lifting your bare arms upward 'mid the frosty winter's morn!
Old trees, your bright green, dancing leaves, where sunbeams loved to play,
The angry storm relentlessly will sweep them all away.

And we have had our falling leaves—the autumn winds have come
And rudely swept across our hearts, and robbed our pleasant home.
The friends we loved, the joys we clasped, the hopes that made us glad,
Are drooping one by one away, and leave us poor and sad.

But he whom God has planted where the eternal rivers glide,
Has God's own promise that his leaves shall fair and green abide;
That though "the fig-tree wither" and "the olive branches fail,"
The tree that he has planted still shall flourish young and hale.

For every hope that fadeth he shall give a fadeless joy;
For every drooping pleasure, perfect gifts without alloy;
For every passing loved one, purer love to bud and bloom
In the land where death shall come not—in the home without a tomb.

Then let us meet the autumn with a strong and perfect trust,
And fear not that the stormy wind shall lay us in the dust;
For a mighty hand is o'er us, and a Father's perfect love
Shall guard till he transplants us in the garden fair above.